Montecito Heights

by Colin Campbell

  The holding cell was the jewel in Hollenbeck’s crown.

  Grant was led past the charge desk in handcuffs. If Gillespie had had his way, he’d be wearing chains and leg irons. The custody sergeant looked up from amending Grant’s custody record with the change of location and nodded for the jailer to continue. They came out of the corridor from the interview rooms and past the cell where Grant had waited the first time. Individual cells were important prior to the interview. You needed somewhere you could keep prisoners apart so they couldn’t cook up a story. Post interview or after being charged prisoners could be put in general population. That meant the holding tank.

  The central area of the tank was a larger version of the traditional jailhouse cell. Bars surrounded the cage on three sides, with benches and tables for the inmates to sit and eat. The back wall had two doorless openings. One led to the concealed entrance to the tank. The other led to the communal washroom and toilets. The entrance was separate from the main cell so that new admissions could have a moment of dignity and privacy before being gawped at by a cell full of morons.

  Grant’s handcuffs were removed in the antechamber. He rubbed his wrists even though the cuffs hadn’t been on tight, a reflex action he hadn’t understood before. The gate was locked behind him, and he walked round the corner into the cage. The room was filled with cursing and wild conversation. There were raised voices and urgent whispers and they all blended into one unruly symphony of noise. Metal cups rattled on the tables, the preferred jailhouse container so they didn’t have to throw out a mountain of used paper cups. A water fountain hissed against the back wall.

  The room smelled of sweat and tobacco even though nobody was smoking. The average criminal smoked forty cigarettes a day. The smell of it was ingrained deeper than the tattoos that most of them wore. Some smelled of used marijuana. A couple smelled of vomit. Nobody smelled of soap and aftershave.

  Grant felt unclean already.

  The noise didn’t abate when he entered. There wasn’t a pause in conversation while everyone eyeballed the new arrival. That only happened in the movies and even then only for effect. The rest of the inmates couldn’t give a shit who was dumped in the holding tank unless it was somebody they’d done a job with.

  Somebody Grant had done a job with was sitting with his back to the door when Grant came in. Two somebodies facing each other across a table in the far corner. That meant that the second guy was looking directly at Grant as he walked through the doorless opening. The two hapless robbers Grant had disarmed outside the Bank of America on West Sixth and Alvarado. The second guy nudged his partner, and Grant knew he was in trouble.

  There was no change in the rhythm of conversation, but the atmosphere turned frosty in an instant. Grant weighed up his options. Call for the jailer and ask to be removed. Go straight up to the robbers and flatten them in a preemptive strike. Or find a more defensible location to fight. That last one was number two in Grant’s golden rules for surviving a confrontation. Number one, avoid getting into a confrontation, wasn’t an option today. Number three, divide and conquer, would be difficult too. But at least he could choose where to fight, and being in the middle of general population wasn’t the place. Prison fights might only start with two or three combatants, but they invariably spread like a virus as everyone else joined in. Especially when the rest of them realized it was open season on an incarcerated cop.

  Grant checked through the bars for the jailer, but he was nowhere in sight. That made Grant’s decision for him. He turned right and walked through the second doorless opening into the communal washroom. Somebody was taking a leak in the first cubicle. The other toilets were empty. There were no doors. Half a dozen clean white washbasins stood empty along the tiled wall, each with a barely used bar of soap. The mirrors were metal, not glass. Two electric hand dryers were fastened to the wall.

  There were no roller towels.

  There were no toilet seats.

  There was nothing he could rip off and use.

  Hollenbeck’s designers had thought of everything. Even the floor was smooth and free of sharp edges. All the washbasins were rounded and lightweight. The doorless doorframes were preformed metal without a single sharp angle or protrusion. The best Grant could do was stick his finger across the cold faucet and direct the jet like a water cannon.

  Grant looked at the faucet. That wasn’t such a bad idea. He quickly turned the first two faucets on and used his thumbs to direct the spray across the smooth tiled floor. It didn’t take much water to turn the tiles into an ice rink. The faucets shut off automatically when he removed his hands. This was high-tech for a prison facility. He remembered going into a museum restroom in Denver one time and the faucets not only came on when you put a hand under the spout but it played music while you washed. Only in LA could they have automatic faucets in the jailhouse.

  Grant stepped away from the door. There was nobody behind him. There was no room either side of him. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. When the two guys plucked up courage to come for him, they only had one way to go. The narrow entrance also meant they couldn’t come more than two abreast, so if they brought their friends with them, it was still only two against one at any given time.

  Grant stood and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  The two hayseed robbers didn’t come alone. Whatever they’d said to the rest of the inmates, it was obvious they all knew that Grant was a cop. Eyes gleamed with malice as the general population crowded the entrance. Tweedledee and Tweedledum led the way, two abreast. One had a metal cup in his hand, flattened to form an improvised knuckleduster. The other just had his fists. Both had ample backup just itching to get in on the action. The doorway filtered them down to two at a time.

  The first two were Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  Grant kept his feet planted shoulder-width apart for balance. Knees flexed. Arms loose and ready. He focused on the robbers’ eyes, the first indicator in any conflict. The man hadn’t been born yet who didn’t show at least a flicker of intent before charging. Gunslingers always blinked as they drew. Boxers always creased their brows before throwing the first punch. Clint Eastwood might have been able to fake it in his poncho, but Steven Seagal almost certainly could not. Both men acted in a fictional world, though. Even in Seagal’s so-called reality show. This was real life. Tweedledum blinked first.

  Grant stepped forward to close the fighting arc and threw a sweeping leg strike low across Dum’s front leg. The strike took his leg sideways, away from his partner, and his second leg followed on the slippery floor. Both legs went from under him. He flung his arms out for balance, but all that did was swing his body in the opposite direction to his legs. His body slapped wet tiles and tangled with the legs of Tweedledee. Dee tried to step over his partner, but the floor was so wet his front foot went left and his back foot slid right. He did the splits and grabbed his groin as he hit the floor with a splash.

  Grant took one pace back to maintain his distance. The preferred wisdom would have been to step forward and stamp on both attackers’ balls, but the floor was too wet. Stamping would risk Grant slipping over too. He stayed on the dry floor at the end of the cul-de-sac. The dead end. He was acutely aware that there was nowhere for him to go and the natives were restless.

  Dum thrashed his legs as he tried to get up. Dee groaned and cupped his strained groin. A big guy with a beard and Nazi tattoos kicked Dum in the back to keep his legs still and stepped over the barrier. Three more followed, one on his own and the other two side by side. Two big guys and one little fella with a mean face. The little fella looked the most dangerous. He also looked like he was in charge.

  Grant backed away, but he was up against the wall.

  The little fella clicked his fingers and pointed to one side. The guy with the Nazi tattoos moved to that side. The little guy directed the other two to separate, and all three formed an
arc that gave Grant too many angles to cover. Now they were through the narrow doorway the space inside the washroom opened out. It was no longer restricted to being two abreast. The three big guys were evenly spread, just out of Grant’s fighting arc. They knew what they were doing. The little fella stepped between them and held one hand out behind him like a relay runner waiting for the baton.

  Somebody handed him a knife.

  Now Grant knew he was in real trouble. It never ceased to amaze him how easily prisoners managed to fashion weapons out of everyday items. The knife wasn’t a knife. It was a sharpened blade made from a hard plastic comb with the teeth removed and a torn handkerchief tied around to form a handle. Grant took his orange windcheater off and wrapped it around his right arm for protection while leaving his dominant left for attack.

  The blade glinted in the light.

  The rest of the inmates crowded the doorway.

  There was no escape. Grant’s only hope was that the jailers would recognize that something was wrong and come in to investigate. The last time Grant had seen the jailer, he’d been going in the opposite direction. Grant wasn’t confident he’d be coming back anytime soon. The only other thing in his favor was that the floor was dry beneath his feet, while the others had tracked water across the tiles. They outnumbered him, but their base was less stable. It was small comfort.

  The knifeman moved forward.

  The big guy on Grant’s right feigned an attack, then stepped back. The one on his left did the same. Grant had to defend against three positions at the same time. It was only a matter of time before two attacked together, and then his goose would be cooked. Once they got him facing one direction, the little fella could move in with the blade and—

  “Hold on there, Shorty.”

  A black guy with a shaved head and a deep voice that Grant hadn’t noticed before stepped in behind the little fella and grabbed the knife hand. He yanked it backwards, twisting the arm up the midget’s back and taking the blade. He passed it behind him, and the knife disappeared into the crowd.

  “That’s no way to treat a celebrity.”

  The black guy wasn’t as big as the other three, but he was more powerful, both in build and personality. The three stepped aside. The black guy kept ahold of the little fella and shook his head. Grant had just met the alpha male of the holding tank, but he still wasn’t sure of his intentions. Grant stayed in the ready position, protective arm forward, attacking hand loose. The black guy introduced himself without holding a hand out to shake.

  “I’m Julius Posey.”

  Grant nodded.

  “But everybody calls me Jewel.”

  “Everybody calls me Officer Grant.”

  “In here, man, that ain’t no good idea. Resurrection Man—now that has a ring to it. I’d stick with that one.”

  The crowd filtered out of the washroom. Tension leaked out of the air. Posey let go of the midget and there was a moment when Grant thought there was going to be a confrontation, but the little fella backed off without a word. His three cronies followed him through the door into the holding cell. Two slim and relatively well-dressed black guys flanked Posey, half a step behind him and to either side. Posey waved them away, and they left.

  Grant unraveled the coat off his arm and shook the creases out.

  “Posey? Like Clint Walker in The Dirty Dozen?”

  “That guy shoulda been a bigger star.”

  “He was pretty big.”

  “Yeah, but he had the looks and the voice. You know, kinda low and rumbling.”

  “Like yours, you mean?”

  “Naw. Mine’s more Ving Rhames deep.”

  “Or Samuel L. Jackson. That’s a black thing, though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s no Clint Walker thing, that’s for sure.”

  “Don’t do yourself down. You’re cool enough to be Clint Walker.”

  “Against dwarfs and prison riffraff I can be. But you, man—walking into the jaws of death with your arms out—that shit in Boston? That was real cool.”

  Grant held out a hand. “Thanks for the help.”

  Posey shook the outstretched hand. A warm, dry handshake that belied the fact that he was obviously a crook or he wouldn’t be in here. Grant considered that. He was a cop, not a crook, but he was still in here. Maybe he needed to reassess some of the judgments he made on a daily basis. Grant nodded toward the doorway.

  “Buddying up to a cop. Isn’t going to give you trouble, is it?”

  “Day I worry what these mopes think, that’s when I’m in trouble.”

  They walked through the door, back into the general population. The tables were occupied again, and conversation had settled back to its unruly norm. One or two inmates gave Grant the evil eye, but most ignored the black guy and the cop. Grant knew he shouldn’t ask but couldn’t help himself.

  “What you in for?”

  Posey smiled. “I got caught.”

  Grant laughed. “Let me guess. You’re innocent, right?”

  “Hell, no. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool bank robber. Everybody around here knows that. They ain’t gonna be able to prove this last one, though, so I’ll be moving on out presently.”

  “The hayseed boys who had it in for me—they were bank robbers. Thought you guys stuck together.”

  “Them boys is foolish dunderheads. Piggybank robbers. Deserve whatever the state of California throws at them. Me? I only do real banks. They’re insured against it anyway. Insurance companies and injury lawyers, they’re the real crooks. Fuckin’ the country over with their blame-and-claim culture. Them and drug dealers. I hate drug dealers.”

  “You gonna tell me you’ve never shot nobody?”

  “I ain’t no angel. But I ain’t never laid my gun on no civilian.”

  “You sound like Omar.”

  “Bin Laden?”

  “Not Osama. Omar. From The Wire.”

  “Oh, yeah. Guy with the shotgun who robs drug dealers. Has that little whistle when he’s coming.”

  “You got a whistle?”

  “Can’t hold a tune.”

  “I thought all you black guys could hold a tune.”

  “Now there goes that racial stereotyping. Like saying white men can’t jump.”

  “Shove a cattle prod up their ass. Anybody will jump.”

  Keys rattled in the lock, and the gate swung open. One jailer waited outside with a clipboard while a second came through the antechamber. He glanced around the cell before settling on Grant.

  “Grant. Follow me. You’re out of here.”

  Grant smiled at Posey. “Looks like I’m more innocent than you are.”

  “Didn’t say I was innocent. Said they couldn’t prove I was guilty.”

  They shook hands again.

  “Well, thanks anyway.”

  “Off you go, man. Resurrected again.”

  The jailer grew impatient. “Come on. I’m gonna cry. There’s someone here to pick you up.”

  With that, Grant was led out of the holding tank. The gate slammed shut behind him, and the keys rattled in the lock. The symphony of angry conversation continued unabated as Posey rejoined his crew. The smell of sweat and tobacco clung to the folds of Grant’s orange windcheater. He wafted the coat to dislodge the smell, then slipped it on, thinking about the bank robber with a conscience. Then he concentrated on who could be waiting outside to pick him up.

  It took almost as long to process him out as it had taken to book him in. Grant knew better than to just sign anything they put in front of him, so he read each piece of paper before scribbling his signature. The Property page listed everything in the bag. He signed it. The Condition of Prisoner page declared that he had no scars or injuries he didn’t already have when he was arrested. At that time, his body had been mapped against any claims of police brutality. He signed that page too.

>   The Prisoner Release page stated there was insufficient evidence to support a charge but that he was subject to re-arrest if further evidence came to light. Grant paused over that one. He knew it was standard procedure, giving the police a second bite of the cherry if they could dig up any more evidence. He wasn’t worried about that. There was no more evidence to find. He signed the page and put the property in his pockets. He flicked open his badge wallet and let the shield catch the light before closing it. The custody sergeant didn’t react. The apology was in the look on his face but not outwardly expressed. All cops stuck together. Covering each other’s backs was part of the job. But surveillance culture meant you had to be careful what you said and where you said it. Custody suites were recorded to prevent abuse of power. It meant the sergeant couldn’t speak his mind. He pointed to an elderly jailer instead.

  “Frank’ll show you out. Watch your back.”

  “Thanks.”

  Frank led Grant out of the metal door, not into the back yard but through the station to the public reception area. Sunlight blazing in through the front windows was only partly shielded by the brushed-steel panels of the art installation across the front of the station. The vestibule looked even more like an art gallery than the exterior. The curved reception desk was pale wood with a lime green work surface. A metal staircase swept up to a balcony that overlooked the lobby. The room smelled of polish and air freshener. The officer performing desk duty glanced up from his work but didn’t speak. Grant crossed the floor and went out the front door.

  Blue sky and sunshine greeted him. The afternoon was hot and bright. The heat reflected off the glaring pink tiles of the front steps and open area that was broken up by low pink walls and tall, thin palm trees. A sign on the wall nearest the road said